Daughter 

She’s running on the beach, ahead of me, free.

I can’t run, I’m too old.

I can’t run, I’m too old.

The tide tumbles in, less dry sand paths between the trails of seeping sea.

Less places for lazy, sensible feet to land.

Water leaks into my shoes, cold, unwanted, wet.

I trot faster, tiptoeing, to find a way through.

Ahead of me she waves, beckoning.

A surge of eager water swamps my stubborn stride.

I can’t bear it.

The damp toes, tentative, weak little steps.

This isn’t me.

I start to run. And the sea urges me on with childish splashes of spray.

Feet are no longer quick sanded and weighted down, they’re light.

I run. I’m not too old.

I run. I’m not too old.

She waits for me, and we charge on, together.

©Charlie Archbold